


you got those tired eyes

by dustyloves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, M/M, Smut, Touch-Starved, cuffing season!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8494528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyloves/pseuds/dustyloves
Summary: Enjolras can't sleep.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Anyone else suffer from seasonal depression around this time of year? I, a known sadist, made Enjolras suffer with us!
> 
> Warning for brief mention of Syrian war related issues/refugees from a European perspective near beginning. 
> 
> Since there are impressionables in fandom, I feel I ought to state as a disclaimer that it is A Bad Idea to bang whichever friend of a friend you run into at a bar when you're sad during cuffing season. Don't be Enjolras.
> 
> Title after Say Anything's Spidersong. Talk to me on [Tumblr](http://theo-decker.tumblr.com).

Enjolras can't sleep.

It starts with a week of deadlines: two college essays (Politics, Philosophy), an anti-capitalist polemic for the student newspaper, a pitch for a leftist blog column. Enjolras builds a nest in the library: blankets, a flask of black coffee, snacks, ibuprofen, his pile of books. He hunches over his laptop, blasting melancholy piano music through his headphones, working and working until he's sick with tiredness, eyes stinging. At 11pm, he gets up, walks around the block, stops at a store for a can of Red Bull, then returns to the laptop for another two hours.

He's done this before, enough to be used to it. He knows the tricks to stay alert: peppermint gum, splashing cold water on his face, running his wrists under the tap. He's got a few Adderall in a bottle in his bag for emergencies. His hands are shaking and his heart is beating double time, but he doesn't care as long as the words keep flowing.

It works. It works so well he finishes all his deadlines early; walks across the square from the library to the Politics building with his paper in hand in the lilac winter sunrise at 8am, breathing in the cold morning air. The hall is deserted. He drops the paper into the submission box, then leaves, heading down the long, winding road to his flat.

His back and shoulders are aching. He groans gratefully when he collapses face-down on his mattress, closes his eyes, relishes the soft cotton of the pillow against his cheek. He breathes deep until his heart rate slows, and waits.

And waits. And turns on his side, and waits. Pulls his duvet up to his neck, and waits; kicks it off completely, and waits. Places the pillow over his head and burrows down into the mattress, and waits.

It's not that he's not tired. He's so tired his thoughts are slow, sluggish, viscous. He feels as though he _could_ drop off any moment and sleep for days, but somehow, he just—doesn’t.

The ABC meeting is at four that afternoon. Enjolras gets up at three, still drugged with sleep deprivation. The sunlight sears his vision when he opens the curtains of his room.

He showers, has a coffee and an Adderall. The nausea is back, and there are dark circles under his eyes, but he can fake it. He'll get through it.

 

-

He has to fall asleep eventually, he thinks. It'll happen. He just has to wait it out.

He gets in bed, reads a chapter of _The Political Unconscious_ by dim lamplight until his eyelids are drooping, but as soon as he tucks the book away and hits the lights, he's wide awake again—or as close to wide awake as someone who is physically ill with exhaustion can be.

'Fuck,' he tells the ceiling, then turns over and pummels his pillow furiously.

Towards dawn, he falls into a fitful doze. He dreams that he discovers a university assignment he'd completely forgotten about, and that all the books he needs from the library are all on loan, then wakes up a few hours later in a wild panic. Enjolras' heart thuds too painfully against his chest for him to go back to sleep.

-

 He tries breathing techniques. He tries all the herbal sleep aids he can find: valerian root, hops, chamomile tea. He tries cough medicine and antihistamines. He catches a few hours that way one night, but it doesn’t work for the next.

Grantaire's getting on Enjolras' nerves again. Just the sight of him, rumpled and dark-eyed with a shit-eating grin, is enough to get on Enjolras’ nerves most days. This meeting is about fundraising for Syrian refugees, which is fucking important, by _anyone's_ definition, and Grantaire’s being drunk and obnoxious and sharing a bag of Doritos with Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet. The rustling of the bag and the crunching of the chips is nails-chalkboard, and Enjolras already feels as if he's fraying around the edges. He knows he sounds like a schoolteacher, but can't help it when he bursts out, 'Grantaire, while we're discussing this, could you _please_ put those away?'

Grantaire, of course, just raises his eyebrow, smirks, and crams an entire handful into his mouth, which makes the other three crack up.

'Yes, traumatised people forced to flee from their war-torn country, fucking _hilarious_ ,' Enjolras mutters.

He knows he's overreacting, coming off humourless and po-faced, but he hasn't had a full night's sleep in a fortnight. If he wasn’t griping, he’d be crying.

He feels a hand brush his shoulder, and glances up to find Combeferre gazing at him through his spectacles with concern.

Enjolras takes a deep breath and does his best to snap out of it. 

-

 Later, as they're having dinner at the Musain bar, Combeferre asks him, quietly, 'Everything alright?'

 Sometimes Enjolras hates that Combeferre is such a good person. Sometimes he hates that Combeferre knows him so well.

 'Fine,' Enjolras says, avoiding his eyes. 'Just tired.'

 'Oh?'

 Enjolras doesn't squirm. 'I'm not sleeping too well.'

 Combeferre regards him for a long moment at that. ‘How bad is it?’

 'I don't know,' Enjolras mumbles. 'Not too bad, I guess. I can sleep for a few hours every other night.'

 'Have you been to a doctor?'

 'What?' Enjolras scoffs. 'No.'

 'You should,' Combeferre says.

 'Uh huh,' says Enjolras, but mentally writes it off. It's fine; he's had bad times like this before. It's the stress and the change in the weather. It'll sort itself out.

 That's what he tells himself, and he believes it until he's in bed that night, face flushed, eyes stinging with tears of frustration.

  _Fuck this,_ he decides, gets up, and pulls on his jeans and red hoodie.

-

 It's quiet in the Corinthe: here and there, a few regulars nursing pints; couples on dates splitting bottles of champagne. Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't think he could deal with fighting through crowds at the bar tonight.

 As it is, the place is bathed in soft candlelight, bluesy guitar music pumping low through the speakers under the sound of quiet conversation. The girl at the bar is half-heartedly polishing a glass, her eyes on the muted _Friends_  episode playing on the TV.

 'Hi,' Enjolras says. 'Um. A large glass of red wine, please?'

 The bartender sets down her glass. 'Merlot or cabernet sauvignon?'

 'Um.' Enjolras does not know about wine. 'I don't know. Whatever's cheapest.'

 She shrugs in response, turns away to fetch the bottle.

 'Enjolras?'

 Enjolras jumps and turns around. Grantaire's there, holding a wine bottle by the neck.

 'Hi,' Enjolras says cautiously.

 'What are you doing here?'

 'I couldn't sleep.'

 'Your wine,' says the bartender, and slides over the glass.

 'Come over and sit,' says Grantaire, and leads him to a table by the window. His sketchbook and pastels are laid out beside his wine glass. 'You just came here all by yourself?'

 ‘I wasn’t looking for a night out,’ Enjolras says. It comes out unnecessarily defensive. ‘I just thought something to drink would help with the, you know.’

 Grantaire nods, throws back the last inch or so of wine in his own glass, then pours another from the new bottle. ‘I get that too.’

 ‘Get what?’

 ‘Insomnia,’ Grantaire says. ‘Ever since I was little and I used to stay up all night reading comics.’

 Enjolras sighs, rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. 'It's just been a bad month.'

 Grantaire toasts him sardonically. 'Never a truer word was spoken.'

 Enjolras follows his lead, takes a generous sip of wine. It's heavy, velvety on his tongue.

 There's a pause, and Grantaire picks up his chalks again, leans over his sketchbook. Enjolras watches his dark, intent eyes as he blends delicately with a fingertip; watches the stray dark curl which keeps falling into his face, no matter how many times Grantaire tucks it behind his ear. He feels sheepish, suddenly.

 'I'm sorry I snapped at you in the Musain the other day,' he says.

 Grantaire snorts, doesn't look up.

 'I didn't mean it,' Enjolras persists.

 'You always mean it.'

 'Not this time.'

 Grantaire sets his chalks down deliberately, looks up to meet his eyes, challenging. Enjolras is the first to break the gaze, glancing down.

 'It just gets a bit much,' he mumbles, 'sometimes.'

 When he looks up again, Grantaire's eyes have softened. He pushes the bottle towards Enjolras' side of the table.

 'Welcome to my life,' Grantaire says, and laughs hollowly.

 They fall back into silence, Grantaire returning to his sketchbook, Enjolras pulling out his Frederic Jameson, and this time it's not awkward at all. It's just quiet companionship, each of them tucked away into their own space, yet not alone. The wine warms Enjolras from the inside out, and something about the ambience, the comfortable yellow light, the laughter of strangers, feels like a breath of relief. Every now and then, his ankle brushes Grantaire's under the table. Each time, he feels a flash of awareness—of his body, of its proximity to Grantaire's.

 In the end, he doesn't drink that much. Just sitting here, across from Grantaire, is enough to quieten his mind, ease the knot in his stomach he hadn't even known was there. He underlines key sentences with his pencil, makes notes in the margins, takes a sip here and there, and by the time the bartender rings the bell for last call, the bottle is nowhere near finished.

 Grantaire looks up, startled. 'Shit. Enjolras, can you do me a favour and be my lookout?'

 Enjolras frowns. 'What?'

 Grantaire, his eyes fixed on the bar, ducks under the table and retrieves his bag; pulls out a thermos. 'Make sure she doesn't come over here.'

 Enjolras can't help his snort of laughter. 'You have a thermos for wine?'

 'I'm serious,' Grantaire pleads.

 Enjolras rolls his eyes. 'Fine,' he says, and shields Grantaire from view as he pours the last of the wine into the flask.

 'Thanks,' breathes Grantaire, screwing the top back on. 'I'm going to the bar. Do you want another drink before the place closes?'

 Enjolras shakes his head. 'Maybe just water?'

 'Got it,' Grantaire says, and rises.

 When he returns, it's with a glass of water and a tall cocktail with crushed ice and a cherry. 'It has the highest alcohol percentage of anything on the menu,' he explains. 'I know, I'm a genius.'

 Enjolras squints at him. 'Don't you have class in the morning?'

 'You don't have to stare at me like that, I know I'm a huge alcy. It's okay, I've accepted it.' He grins, then slouches in his chair and sucks the cocktail through a straw, eyebrows raised.

 Enjolras sips his own water, book set aside for a moment. He regards Grantaire, sees him clearly maybe for the first time: the bags under his eyes, the red spots high on his cheekbones—burst blood vessels, maybe, from the booze, he notes. He's always got that smirk on, but there's something tired around his eyes.

 'Do you come here every night?'

 'Not _every_ night,' Grantaire objects. Then, after a moment, he admits, 'Most nights.'

 Enjolras nods.

 'You don't need to look so fucking _worried_ ,' Grantaire snaps.

 'I'm not,' Enjolras says, which is mostly true. Grantaire has been doing this for years, far longer than he's known him.

 Enjolras has never stopped to examine his own subconscious belief that Grantaire has always been like this—the loud, messy one, always laughing, always out on the town. It's who he is, Enjolras thought; part of his DNA. He could never even have imagined Grantaire could be quiet like he is tonight with him, just sketching, meditating, being. He could never have imagined that one night—tonight—he'd sit across from Grantaire and wonder if, just possibly, what looks from the outside like careless, hedonistic excess is in fact very intentional. A way to live; a way to cope.

 'It's a nice place,' he adds. 'I've never been here on a weeknight.'

 'It's my favourite place,' Grantaire agrees.

 They finish their drinks, pack up, and leave.

-

 He keys open the door to his apartment, shrugs off his coat and bag. Without turning on the lights, he slumps onto the sofa.

 Abruptly, the fragile equanimity he'd found in the bar shatters—just like that, sitting on his sofa in the shadowy room, dark apart from the pale streetlights from the window, listening to the sounds of drunken voices on the street, of crowds pouring out of the bars, drunken parties he doesn't belong to. The feeling slams into him with the impact of a double-decker bus, and he swallows against a lump in his throat; kicks off his shoes, draws his knees up to his chest.

He knows the word for it, but doesn't want to say it, can't admit it even in his own head. It's too much, too painful, a sickly sentimental flood. He's writhing in humiliation at even the thought.

He _can't_ be feeling like this. He's got friends he adores, who adore him. He's got family—sure, family he fights with constantly and rarely calls, but he knows that if he ever needed anything, they would be there; if anything serious happened, they would have his back. He's got a thousand reasons to live. He's got so much work to do. He was put here, in this university, in this city, on this earth, to do his work, and he doesn't have _time_ for this sloppy, self-indulgent, self-pitying—

Tears stream down his face, hot and involuntary.

He's going to be crying on this couch for some time, he realises.

 With grim resignation, he flicks on the TV.

At around 6am, he dozes off to the morning news, still fully dressed, eyes finally dry, the dawn casting his room in crimson. And that's why he's asleep when his phone runs out of battery.

-

 For a long time, he can't tell if the banging at the door is real or part of his dream. Eventually, he heaves himself upright, blinking blearily, and notes the pale, tremulous sunlight streaming through the window. _Des chiffres et des letters_ is on TV. _Shit._  What time is it? Did he have class today? He scrabbles for his phone.

The banging starts up again, more insistent, and there's the sound of someone rattling the letterbox— _rude_ , Enjolras thinks, and yells, 'Hold on, hold on, I'm coming!'

He opens the door to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

'Are you sick?' Courfeyrac blurts out.

Enjolras blinks back, bemused. 'What?'

'Just, you didn't return any of our calls—'

'You just woke up, didn't you,' Combeferre observes. 'The insomnia again?'

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, knowing it's probably sticking up at wild angles. 'Kind of,' he says, and steps back to let them in.

'You missed our philosophy seminar,' says Combeferre, pulling books out of his satchel. Courfeyrac immediately heads into the kitchen and busies himself with the coffee machine, while Combeferre runs through his notes and their assignments.

Enjolras just sits on the sofa, hazy and out of it. He lets Combeferre talk, and accepts the mug of coffee Courfeyrac presses into his hands.

He had been dreaming before they arrived, he remembers. He was dreaming about a boy he'd known back at collège who'd moved away; a boy who had been his first friend, passed him notes in class and lent him Upton Sinclair books. The weekend before he moved to his new school, they had sat by the pond outside Enjolras' house, skipping stones and wasting time, side by side in the sunshine, and he had said something like, ‘I think I’ll miss you, E.’ Enjolras had looked up to find him several inches closer than he’d expected, close enough to kiss. He’d been all freckles and warm skin and large deerlike eyes, and Enjolras knew from the quirk at the corner of his mouth that if Enjolras wanted to, he _could_ kiss him; he’d let him.

But that, Enjolras had thought then, would have been the start of something. It would have been a messy tangle of crossed wires and hurt feelings. Enjolras had his exams, and his volunteer work at the weekends, and his work on the school paper; and besides, wasn't this moment, lounging on the grass, so very close, shoulders brushing, sharing a secret smile—wasn't it enough?

In real life, he'd inched back, and the moment had passed. But in his dream, Enjolras had kissed him. His lips were so very soft.

 Enjolras refuses to think about what that means. His subconscious isn't very subtle.

' _Enjolras_ ,' says Combeferre, his voice exasperated now, and Enjolras snaps to attention.

'Yes, what?'

'You're not depressed, are you?'

Courfeyrac's eyes flash over, wide, frightened.

The lump in Enjolras' throat returns.

'No,' he manages, though his voice is too rough to be convincing. 'I'm not depressed—or, I don't know, maybe I am. But it's not the main problem.'

Combeferre nods carefully. 'So what _is_ the main problem?'

Enjolras winces. He still doesn't want to say it.

'Enjolras,' Courfeyrac says, voice gentle, and he leans over, knocks his arm against Enjolras'.

Enjolras swallows, looks away from them both, willing himself not to burst into tears. Last night was the first time he'd cried in about a year and a half. Apparently, he's broken a dam. 

'It's nothing,' he mutters. 'I think I'm just lonely.'

There it is: _lonely_. The word is humiliating for its childishness, as well as for its raw admission of pain. _Loneliness_ —surely that’s not a real affliction? Surely that should be nothing more than the kind of momentary tug of emotion you get listening to sad songs late at night?

Yet here Enjolras is, sleep-deprived and missing classes, and the only person who's made it feel any easier is a drunk asshole he usually can't stand. There's no way he can deny that this is a Problem.

'Enj,' Courfeyrac says, wrapping his arms around Enjolras' waist from behind and turning his face into his neck.

He doesn't have to say anything. Enjolras knows what he means: _this time, come to us; don't ever lock yourself in the library like that again; we're here for you, always._

Combeferre grasps his other hand, squeezes. At that, a couple of tears finally do spill, drip down Enjolras' nose. Courfeyrac only holds him closer.

Enjolras wants to relax into it, but he can't. Humiliation and self-disgust are still rolling over him in waves, and he just wants to curl in on himself, to disappear.

He straightens, wipes furiously at his eyes, coughs and tries to force his voice into something normal.

'So, about the meeting tonight,' he says, looking up. He doesn't miss the way the crease in Combeferre's forehead smooths, the almost tangible relief in the atmosphere as he clicks back into his role.

He can't be a mess like this, not with them. 

-

 That feeling lingers. As long as Courfeyrac and Combeferre are there, he is able to push through the emptiness. They are used to having a leader. Enjolras is used to being one.

He struggles through the day, facilitates the ABC meeting as normal, and no-one seems to notice anything off about him, though he feels he's doing a weak impersonation of himself at best. Combeferre catches him up on his philosophy and politics assignments, and they eat the cheap student pub food at the Musain, just as they usually would. Enjolras has slept through the better part of the daylight hours, and he's unsettled by the way the darkness rushes in. It only increases the feeling of unreality, the anxiety at the pit of his stomach. Everything is the same, but not quite right.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac take him home, and they huddle together on the sofa in his apartment sipping hot tea until Courfeyrac's yawning.

'Do you need us to stay?' Combeferre asks, tentatively.

Enjolras smiles, even as his stomach drops and dread settles in. 'No, I'll be fine.'

It's a lie, but he's not sure sitting up alone while Courfeyrac and Combeferre sleep would be any better than sitting up alone in an empty apartment, anyway.

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure. I'll call you a taxi.'

Before they leave, Courfeyrac hugs Enjolras close, says in his ear, 'Are you sure there's nothing we can do? I could call you in the morning to make sure you're up.'

Enjolras' smile is starting to feel strained. 'It's alright. I won't forget to set my alarm again.'

Courfeyrac kisses his cheek, and follows Combeferre out. 

-

He holds out until just before midnight this time, but his thoughts keep coming back to Grantaire, for some reason. He'd never much got on with Grantaire until last night, but now, lying in bed with his eyes closed, he can’t stop turning over images of Grantaire’s hands in his mind—so large and unwieldy-looking, but so precise in the way they worked over the pages of his sketchbook.

The thoughts don't soothe him; if anything, the knot of yearning inside him tightens and tightens. He twists around in his bed, squeezing his eyes shut angrily.

When he next looks at the digital clock on his bedside table, he realises it's five minutes until last call at the bar.

One drink, he thinks, and gets up.

-

He spots Grantaire as soon as he walks in, in the same seat by the window. Grantaire's head snaps up as if he can sense Enjolras' gaze. He freezes.

Enjolras orders a glass of wine again.

 'We're closing in fifteen minutes,' the bartender says wearily.

 'I'll be out of here in ten,' he promises, and heads over to Grantaire's table.

 Grantaire's blinking at him, tipsy and stunned. 'You came back.'

 Enjolras slumps into the seat opposite, takes a sip from his glass. 'Have you been drawing again?'

 'Yes.'

 'Can I see?'

 Grantaire hesitates. 'Just this page,' he says. 'There's a lot of embarrassing stuff in there.'

 Enjolras nods. Grantaire pushes the sketchbook over.

 He's been working in charcoal tonight, Enjolras sees. All he's drawn is the street outside their window. Men and women bundled in winter coats, sharing cigarettes at the bus stop; a teenage girl with earphones in reading a book; one man with his arms circling his girlfriend's waist, protecting her from the wind. The neoclassical architecture of the buildings across the square are sketched in impressive detail. Enjolras' eye is drawn to design flourishes he'd never noticed on the real buildings before.

'You're so talented,' Enjolras blurts.

Grantaire takes his sketchbook back, smiling wryly. 'Nah. I've had a lot of practice.'

'I'm sorry,' Enjolras says. 'If I ever acted dismissive of what you do. I know I can be kind of one-track minded—'

'"Kind of",' Grantaire mocks. Enjolras glares.

'Anyway, it's really impressive,' he says.

'They're just doodles,' Grantaire says. 'It's not like they're good for anything.'

'You could be an illustrator.'

Grantaire shakes his head, laughing. 'I'd rather keep these just for me.'

Enjolras nods as if he understands, though he can’t remember the last time he kept something for himself.

'You never told me what you were doing back here,' Grantaire says, a note of accusation in his voice.

'I just wanted a drink.'

'Two nights in a row? Are you trying to do an impression of me?'

Enjolras sighs. 'I don't really want to talk about it.'

'Enjolras.' Grantaire reaches across the table, places his hand over Enjolras'. Enjolras goes very still.

'There isn't anything wrong, is there?'

It takes a couple of tries for Enjolras to get the words out. His face feels very warm.

'I'm okay,' he manages.

Grantaire nods, takes his hand away. Enjolras misses the contact instantly.

The bell rings. 'That's it for tonight, folks!' the bartender calls.

'Suppose I'd better get going home,' Grantaire says, and starts to pack away his things.

'Can I come?' Enjolras says, in a rush, before he can talk himself out of it.

Grantaire looks up, raises his eyebrows. 'What?'

'I mean, can I come home with you? I just.' He swallows. 'I don't want to be alone tonight.'

It comes out raw; too-honest.

Grantaire's gazing at him, eyes wide.

'Sure, Apollo,' he says softly. 'Anything you need.' 

-

'R,' Enjolras says, and grabs hold of his sleeve as the apartment door falls shut behind him.

Grantaire twists in his grip, frowning.

 ' _Gran_ taire,' Enjolras says, willing him to get it, to be okay with it, _please, be okay with it_ —but Grantaire just stares at him, bemused, and Enjolras can't find the words.

He gives up, tugs Grantaire in, and bends to catch his mouth in a kiss.

For a moment, Grantaire flails under him, until his hands find Enjolras' hips. That tentative touch alone, through the cotton of Enjolras' t-shirt, is enough to make Enjolras gasp into his mouth. It's been so long, he thinks, frantic with it. Grantaire's lips part under his like flower petals, so soft, so easy. Enjolras never understood what the big deal with kissing was before, never understood why it was always the big climactic moment in movies with the swelling strings. He couldn't even fully articulate it now: all he knows is that he's breathless with the way Grantaire's mouth is sliding against his, flushed and panting.

Grantaire breaks apart, pushes him back gently, letting go of his hips, and a small sound of loss escapes Enjolras' throat.

'What are we doing?' Grantaire asks. His voice is about three octaves lower than usual, and his mouth is red and swollen. Enjolras can't tear his eyes away.

'I don't know,' Enjolras rasps. 'I just want—Grantaire, _please_ —'

'You're not drunk, are you? Or sick, or out of your mind, or something?'

' _No_ ,' Enjolras says, takes a shuddery breath, and forces himself to make coherent words. 'I'm sober, I'm awake, I know what I’m doing. I just wanted you. I _want_ you,' he corrects himself, and he can't help the way his eyes skate over Grantaire then. Grantaire’s eyes are flashing in the dark hallway, broad chest is still heaving slightly. Enjolras wants his body close to his, wants it with a blinding intensity he's never felt before.

'You want me,' Grantaire repeats, disbelieving.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise and pulls Grantaire in again, kisses him hard.

This time, Grantaire doesn't hesitate in response. The kiss deepens almost immediately, Grantaire working his tongue in practiced circles against his that leave Enjolras weak, clinging to him, shivering and desperate.

'C'mon,' Grantaire murmurs at the corner of his mouth, takes his hand, turns and leads him into his room. Enjolras collapses onto the bed. Grantaire follows, crawling into his lap.

Grantaire's left the lights off. It's dark, but there's enough light from the window, between the streetlights, moon and stars, for Enjolras to make him out clearly. Which is just as well, because Enjolras can't stop looking.

He traces Grantaire's lower lip with his thumb, fascinated by the way Grantaire's eyes flutter at the touch.

'Do _you_ want this?' Enjolras asks him quietly.

Grantaire gives a choked laugh. 'Do I _want_ this?' he repeats, incredulous. 'I've wanted this forever. I've wanted this since—oh, I don’t know. Since the first time I set eyes on your face.'

'Really?'

Grantaire breathes out shakily. 'Enjolras, you're so beautiful.'

Enjolras can't help it: he moans brokenly and launches forward, kissing Grantaire again and working his hands under his shirt, running fingertips up Grantaire's sides until he shivers. He brushes experimentally over one of Grantaire's nipples; Grantaire makes a sharp, almost pained noise and jerks forward, which—fuck, feels so fucking good, _too_ good, and Enjolras lets his own hips move in tandem, until they're basically grinding together in their jeans.

It chafes a little, and it's nowhere near enough. 'Please,' Enjolras says, and tugs hard at Grantaire's shirt, hoping he gets the message.

Grantaire does, and they're soon divested of shirts, jeans and shoes. Grantaire runs his fingers under the waistband of Enjolras' boxers, gazing at him quizzically from under his lashes.

The feeling of Grantaire's calloused fingertips brushing the sensitive skin there makes him shudder violently. He grabs Grantaire's wrist, murmurs, 'This is enough. I'm not going to last,' and Grantaire nods and resumes their kiss, exploring Enjolras' mouth with his tongue, and it's so hot, slow, sensuous, and all Enjolras can do is cling to him for dear life, fingernails biting into Grantaire's shoulders and back, moaning and rutting against him. He doesn't think he's felt so vulnerable with someone else since he was a child, but he can't even think about it now, too lost in his pursuit of orgasm.

He breaks away as he feels himself get closer, throwing his head back, eyes shut, mouth wide, panting; and that's why he doesn't register what's happening until Grantaire slides a spit-slick hand into his shorts and grasps his cock. A minute later, Enjolras comes. The intensity of it shocks him: he cries out.

Grantaire jerks Enjolras through it until he's shivering, then retrieves his hand, still slippery with Enjolras' come, pulls out his own cock and starts jerking off feverishly. The sight is so hot Enjolras groans, quivering with aftershocks. Grantaire bites his lip, watching Enjolras, his eyes half-lidded, and Enjolras leans in and kisses him, open-mouthed and sloppy, until Grantaire finally comes, gasping, in spurts over Enjolras' stomach.

He collapses by Enjolras' side. Enjolras' eyes flutter closed, he lies there, exhausted, but warm and dazed, his body still throbbing with pleasure.

He feels a tap on his arm: Grantaire's handing him Kleenex. He half-heartedly mops himself up, rolls over and throws the scrunched-up tissue in the bin by the bed.

'Was that okay?' asks Grantaire after a moment, his voice quiet and uncharacteristically shy.

'That was,' Enjolras sighs, stretches his arms above his head. 'So fucking good, Grantaire. That was everything I wanted.'

Grantaire doesn't reply, so Enjolras opens his eyes, turns his head. Grantaire is watching him intensely. There's still that old trace of melancholy around his eyes.

'I meant what I said before,' he says. 'I've liked you for a long time. A really long time.'

Enjolras hoists himself up by his elbows. 'I haven't,' he says, honestly, 'but I do now.'

Grantaire's expression is still marred with tension, all anxiety and disbelief, so Enjolras scoots closer, kisses him, as tenderly as he can.

'I think you're everything I didn't realise I needed,' he murmurs, inches from Grantaire's lips; and Grantaire's hand comes up to grab a fistful of his hair, and bring their mouths together again. Grantaire's kiss is harsher this time, more desperate: _please_ , it's saying, _tell me you mean this_ , and Enjolras answers him: _I want you, I want you, I want you_.

They kiss until their lips sting; until they’re slowing, worn out.

'Can I sleep here tonight?' Enjolras asks.

In response, Grantaire flings an arm around him and pulls him in, spooning him from behind.

Enjolras inhales the scent of Grantaire’s cologne, feels his own heart beat fall into sync with Grantaire's behind him. He breathes easier than he has in weeks.

He drops off to sleep like it's nothing. 

-

The room is flooded with sun when Enjolras blinks awake. The surroundings are completely unfamiliar. It takes a moment to get his bearings. There are roses growing in the messy, overgrown garden outside Grantaire's window, pale pink and white.

Grantaire's rolled over in his sleep. He's snoring faintly, face buried in the pillow, just a mop of black curls.

The time on Grantaire's clock reads 8:12am. Enjolras sighs, relieved, content, and allows himself a few minutes just to breathe.

 _Things are going to be okay_. For the first time in over a month, he believes it.

He leaves Grantaire with a note—'Went to class, see you at the ABC meeting - E'; after some deliberation, cringingly adding a couple of Xs—and a kiss on the cheek.

When he walks out into the dewy winter morning, he feels awake.


End file.
